


Indivisible

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Paternal Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is not the perfect father or spouse, but he will never stop championing those he loves. Inspired by Small_Hobbit's "Unexpected Family" universe, where he and Sherlock have two adopted children, Lucy and William.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice Creams & Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Small_Hobbit for her blessing in letting me contribute to her universe. Of course, we have very different styles, so I appreciate the leeway she's given me. Also, I'm American. Therefore, her brit-picks are invaluable. Finally, big hugs to corimariee and Impish_Tubist for the rah rah sis boom bah.
> 
> I don't own these characters, obviously, and the chapters were originally part of a live journal 30 day challenge, beta-ed and edited for the first ever "Papa Lestrade Day" on tumblr, celebrating Father's Day.

Sherlock was on a case or he’d be the one to pick up William this time. It was ‘Bring Your Daughter to Work Day’ in Lucy’s class so she was safely ensconced at Bart’s with Molly. The year before that, Greg had taken her with him for the day and it was a bit more than disastrous. They’d ended up abandoning her with a trusted clerk at Tesco’s after a suspect tore out, taking the manager with him as a hostage. Didn’t help that prior to that, Sherlock had riled up the man, who was already high on cocaine. Greg swore he’d never put Lucy in that kind of situation again for a class assignment, so this year, he was content to leave her with Dr. Hooper. Unless a zombie apocalypse was imminent, it was sure to be a relatively uneventful day – full of interesting cases to pique Lucy’s interest, but not in any way that would put her in danger. That was the kind of balance he could be assured of in Molly’s morgue.

So he wasn’t actually prepared with what he’d get by picking up William. The headmistress wasn’t someone he was familiar with and Sherlock had never made much mention of her –

“D.I. Lestrade.”

“Er, yes?” Within a few seconds he was reduced to an eight year-old; he could feel his stature shrink until he was eye-to-eye with his adopted son.

“William does not eat his lunch and I fear that his starvation tactics are the reason why he is cranky by early afternoon. I have told your husband about this and he assured me that it would be taken care of but it has been several weeks now and his teacher is at her wit’s end. We may have to arrange individual teaching for him again –“

“Wait, wait,” Lestrade put up his hands, rubbed the wedding band around his thick ring finger and licked his upper lip. “My husband hasn’t told me anythin.’ But I can assure you that he…” Greg eyed William, who instantly looked away guiltily, “…they are trying to fix the problem. The last thing anyone wants is for Will to go back individual instruction –“

“Nutrition is of utmost importance here, Inspector Lestrade. And your son must eat during the day in order to do well in his studies.”

“I completely agree,” Lestrade swallowed, hoping that his puppy eyed look could help somewhat, “Although I admit I’m baffled. Will has a good appetite at home –“

Greg then noticed the fidgeting his son was doing as children came in and out of the office, the noise from outside the open window rising as parents were picking up their children and still others were loudly enquiring about their sons or daughters day at school.

It clicked.

“Mrs. ?” He winced.

“Dr. Eberharden.” She punctuated stiffly.

“Dr. Eberharden, it might be a good idea to let him have his lunch in a quiet room alone. You see, since my husband and I keep strange hours and sometimes we’re not in our flat at the same time, Will is used to eating his meals with only one or two people at the table. It’s not chaotic or noisy – not that I expect a playground to be less than that – but if you want him to eat, putting him in a calmer atmosphere might get you the results you need.”

Greg automatically looked to his son for reassurance that he was suggesting the right thing and miraculously he could see Will’s shoulders relax, his eyes bright again, almost with unshed tears and a small smile curving upwards from his lips.

“What do you think, Will?”

The boy nodded soundlessly, but with more enthusiasm than Dr. Eberharden had seen in awhile because her reaction told them both that she was convinced:

“Splendid!” she beamed. “That is what we shall do, then, yes, William?”

The smile widened. Greg was so proud, relieved, too.

“Good,” the headmistress sighed before turning back to Greg, “I say, Inspector, you are far more personable than your husband –“

“I don’t doubt it. Come, William! Let’s get home shall we?”

* * *

Greg needed a pint after that but as it turns out, he had to fulfill one of Sherlock’s promises from the day before – which was a trip to their favorite cafe for some ice cream. It was a hot day so Greg didn’t mind so much. It gave him time to play around with the new iPhone Sherlock had bought him for his birthday. So far, he’d only made calls from it – and texts, of course. Sherlock wouldn’t communicate in anything but texts. Greg wasn’t used to the other aspects of the mobile – the ability to store music on it, or the applications that showed him the quickest route to the London Eye in rush hour traffic.

So while Will was enjoying a dulce de leche ice cream with crushed Maltesers, Greg took advantage of the mutual silence to play with his new toy.

The thing about Will was that when he enjoyed a bit of food, especially a treat, he savored it. He took an inordinately expansive amount of time getting to the last bite, to the point where the cup and spoon were licked sparkling clean. So Greg knew he was there for a bit. From the corner of his eye, he could see Will grinning, sighing and bobbing his head from side to side occasionally. It wasn’t unusual for the lad to get up with his cup and run to the windows to look at bystanders as they walked by, eating little spoonfuls the whole time. Sherlock called it ‘cataloguing.’ Greg just knew that this was part of what made his son so quirky, mysterious as he would always be, but for now, in the innocent way he never took for granted.

It was during one of these trips to the window that Greg finally looked up and noticed something markedly different. Two girls, sitting at another table, were whispering to one another. Occasionally, one of them would giggle and normally, Greg wouldn’t think anything of that, but when Will came back to his seat, one of the girls – perhaps she was aged 9 or 10 – would shush the smaller, younger one, giving the back of Will’s head a longing glance.

Oh.

He’s that age. Greg couldn’t believe it. The one day Sherlock missed picking up their son and he missed the moment a girl could have a crush at first sight for William.

He smiled then and without thinking too much about it, leaned over to Will and rubbed the hair on his head good-naturedly –

“Ow! Dad, what’s that for?”

“For being a good son, lad. And because I love you.”


	2. Dreamscapes of William

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's deep-seated fears about his abilities as a parent to someone as exceptional as William come to a head.

*

Sherlock was roused from slumber like rising from a fog. He could hear a wolf’s whimper and thought he was dreaming but when he came to, he realized that it emanated from his husband next to him, laying there, curled up tight, yet facing him. He itched to turn on the light and shock them both to full wakefulness, but there was something unprecedented about it that made the consulting detective pause and wait until his night vision came to the fore.

Greg was safe; Sherlock knew enough from those years with John to have the proper medical vigilance. His husband had a light sheen of sweat on his brow, which was furrowed and tense, and his mouth quivered. A whimper would escape every so often, punctuated by a low moan, twice, thrice. Several of those times afterwards Sherlock reached out to him, an opposing reflex born by so many years together, from a history where Greg was the consoler and he, the consolee, and thus, this would’ve been the right moment for everything caretaker-oriented to come full circle, but there was something about the way the rapid eye movement oscillated behind Greg’s lids – how quickly they moved, how deep the breaths he took were – that made Sherlock pause to…study him.

Sherlock had always been fascinated by his husband. There was still so much he had yet to know, so much Greg would not tell him – of his past or his day-to-day struggles, base feelings that would have been wrought from guilt or shame (if he’d had any, the saint). Yet, in all the time that they’d been conjoined, Sherlock had never been conscious for any of Greg’s nightmares, let alone dreamscapes.

So he lay there alert, just inches in front of his husband’s distressed features, breathing in the carbon dioxide he exhaled, cataloguing every facial movement and ready to grasp his hand should both of them become distressed by what they were seeing –

* * *

It started out fairly well, this day. Greg was taking Will to the local university. It looked foreign but inviting. The staff, run by an average White male, whose name now escaped him, was friendly. The PA to this man let them in ahead of all the other parents and children that were in the waiting area and Greg was nonplussed about that, insisting that he could wait, but no, that was unacceptable for some reason.

The Dean, as Greg assumed this man was, finally saw them both into his office and he asked Will a series of questions that seemed innocuous at first. It all had to do with whether or not he would be ready for this school, but anyone with eyes could see that the lad was only eleven years old. As far as Greg was concerned, William’s happiness was far more important than his intellect, his intellect being a point of pride for Sherlock, who tutored his son on regular occasion.

So Greg felt powerless and completely in the dark as the Dean aggressively interrogated his son.

William fidgeted more than his father had ever seen him do in public or private. He picked and chewed at his fingernails, all the while, answering each question perfectly. Every now and then, Will would leap up and run to the window, plead to leave, but the Dean said that the interview was still in progress and “didn’t he want to be part of this great institution?”

Greg could hear a grinding of machinery and looked out the window, only to realize he was grinding his teeth. He wanted to bolt but felt rooted to the spot. He looked to Will for guidance, any sign that they should leave, but his son wouldn’t stop answering the barrage, the litany, that the Dean produced in a robotic, poker-faced fashion.

He looked down, realizing his feet were cold and didn’t seem surprised to find that his shoes were missing. So were Will’s.

“Where are our trainers?” Greg enquired.

“You’ll have them when we’re done with our evaluation.”

“Is that what this is, an evaluation?”

“You want your son at this school, don’t you?”

Greg felt compelled to say ‘no,’ but what came out of his mouth was a stupid ‘yes.’

God, get me out of here.

The Dean was tenacious in his questioning. William had taken a book from the shelf and was leafing through it, rubbing his fingers on one page until the callous on his thumb was worn through and pink, raw. And then it began to bleed –

“Enough!” Greg exclaimed, rising up with an ache deep in his chest, “Make your decision, now, please, I have to get my son to hospital!”

“Fine,” the Dean smiled, “I’ll put William on the waiting list.”

“Why?!” Greg spit out, “He’s answered every question perfectly!”

“It’s his behavior, Detective Inspector. Look at him. He’ll never fit into campus life. Get him the proper socialization and we’ll see you again in three years –“

“Bollocks to that!” Greg bellowed, “I want our shoes. I want to get out of here!”

* * *

The tears began to stream down Greg’s face and that’s when Sherlock could endure no more. Love won over science and he grasped hard his husband’s hand.

Greg woke with a gasp, his eyes wide and unseeing, and Sherlock took him into his arms in a firm, but not too tight embrace. He could feel his husband’s heart thumping between them and resolved to serve as only a buoy in a stormy sea.

“I’m here, Lestrade. I’m not letting you go, wherever you are, I’m with you.” Sherlock found that his heart rate had sped up as well. This damned empathy business was going to kill them both and he wanted to say something of sentiment, something that would tell Greg that he was in the living and in the reality of the now, “Lucy spent the day with Molly and is now safely asleep and William had a dulce de leche ice cream with you after school –“

“Sh-Sherlock…” Greg was grasping onto the lapels of his pyjamas, breathing sweet, hot air onto his face and he fought the urge to kiss him then and there, for fear it would disorient him further, “That was a dream?”

“A nightmare by the look of it.”

And then Greg opened his eyes, tears continuing to spill from their corners, “Oh…God. And I’m still here.”

“Of course you are, idio- Greg.” Sherlock bit his tongue, “We’re all here. Lucy and William. We’re all alive.”

And now Sherlock could see that Greg was fully awake.

“I need to check on William.”

“You do that. I’ll make tea and then we can talk about it if you wish.”

* * *

“But I don’t understand. From what you told me, it was a triumph today.” Sherlock brought the mug only halfway to his lips.

“It was,” Greg breathed, waiting for his tea to cool from scalding hot to drinkable. “But I worry, love. I don’t know where it comes from.” He then put down the mug with a bang, “Oh, what’s the use. I can tell from the look on your face that this doesn’t make any sense to you. He looks to you; you have whisperings, conversations that I feel completely at a loss about –“

“You could always ask me their content –“

Greg sighed, “That’s not really the point, Sunshine.” He smiled, the curve dim in the moonlight, but enough to tug at Sherlock’s ill-used heart, “I don’t need to understand, but I’m not sure the rest of world is content with that. I just want him to be loved. To succeed. To find work. To find friends.”

Sherlock put down his mug in an almost equal state of agreement.

“Will is adopted.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Shut up and let me go on now. You’ve had your turn. Now’s mine.”

Silence. Good.

“Will is adopted. His medical history is of course, unknown. So far he’s exhibited eccentric behavior, but nothing sociopathic or psychopathic –“ Sherlock put up a finger when he noticed the look of horror on Greg’s face, “Second point of fact, I am his father. I am eccentric, a high-functioning –“

“Don’t say it because I hate when you say it because it’s not true.”

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes burned with wetness from memories past, The Bullying Years as Mycroft once called them.

“The point, Lestrade, is that our son has two loving parents and one very, very protective adopted sister, who, if you remember, waited behind a tall bush to confront a boy twice her size that was terrorizing her brother last year and has since never terrorized him again.” Sherlock sniffed and held his head high, “While I acknowledge this dream and the fears it expresses, it does not take into account reality. The reality that William is beloved and well-protected. That the people around him love him, support him and will continue to do so for as long as he lives.”

Sherlock didn’t mean for it to come out with so much vehemence and for a moment he was ready to scold himself from the way Greg’s face was twisting, as if to shush him for being too loud, loud enough to wake the children but then the expression fell and Greg was sobbing.

It was as though the lift carrying his life had plummeted to the floor. Sherlock was stunned still. He couldn’t move. His husband had never shown this much outward despair. He cursed himself for not deducing it sooner and at the same time for being the cause of it –

“Oh God, you bastard, c’mere.” Greg grabbed him and held on. 

It was choking, but Sherlock held his breath, didn’t care if he died.

As long as it was in his husband’s arms, the arms that he knew would take care of Lucy and William no matter what happened, this was where he belonged.


	3. Human Barometer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William gets into another spot of trouble at school and Greg's lack of influence makes him question his bond to his son.

*

Sherlock was on an MI-5 related case that took him to Croatia, which left Greg doing half days at the Yard, picking up both Lucy and William after school. It was the Friday and Lucy was spending the weekend at a friend’s holiday home in Sussex; Greg was looking forward to having alone time with William.

As far as parenting went, he and Sherlock passed through stages of being the favorite for either daughter or son. When Lucy was four, she’d spent most of her time with the younger of the two men, but now that the siblings were much older, William gravitated towards the genius of the household. Loath to any kind of competition, Greg took the preference in stride. After all, he couldn’t really begrudge his own children’s fascination with Sherlock’s mind; it was a good part of the reason why he’d fallen in love with the skinny git in the first place. So as much as he looked forward to a weekend alone with William, he wasn’t really sure he’d be ample company. Greg was the more physical type – joining with his mates at the Yard every other weekend for some football while Sherlock and the children went to a gallery opening or a science exhibition.

So far, William had expressed no interest in anything sports-related and Greg didn’t push him. He was about to find out how good a decision that may have been.

* * *

“D.I. Lestrade!”

“Yes?” Greg could feel his testicles move further up into his groin area. It wasn’t Dr. Eberharden this time; it was William’s classroom assistant. Still, she was quite the battle-axe. He’d hoped that there would’ve been someone younger and less jaded than in the years past, but there had been no such good fortune to be had.

“William had a trying time today.”

“H-How so?”

“Well, he forgot to turn in most of his homework and he confronted Louis today, got right into his face and told him ‘I’m going to get you.’”

Greg closed his eyes. He’d heard about Louis before. Class representative. Apparently very good at football and rugby.

And twice as big as William.

“Are you mad at me, Dad?”

Greg opened his eyes to the sound of his son’s voice, plaintive and small. “Will, why did you say that?”

“But are you mad at me!?”

“I’m just trying to get information –“

And then Will was gone, running onto the playground and to the apparatus to work out his frustration by kicking up the dirt.

“D.I. Lestrade, are you aware of William’s jealousy towards Louis?”

“I’m afraid I am, yes,” Greg sighed, “I know that he feels he’ll never be as good at…sports…or as popular as Louis –“

“But something has to be done. William has been threatening Louis like this at least three times a day –“

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“We told your husband.”

Greg groaned. “And I’m sure he said he’d take care of it.”

The aide gave him a weak smile.

He turned and walked halfway across the playground, “Will! Come over here! Right now, lad!”

Deep creases formed on his son’s brow and cheeks – once puffy and full as a toddler, now only thinned out by prominent pre-teenaged cheekbones and a cleft chin – and he rushed back over to his father, obedient, yet reluctant and afraid.

“Will,” Greg sat him down so that both were at eye level, his voice loud enough to be heard by the assistant, “We’re going to go home this weekend and by Monday, you will have crafted an essay – a letter – to Louis. I want the first paragraph to be about why you don’t like him and that it’s because he’s so good at things that you’re not good at, as well as anything else you wish you could do that he can.

“In the second paragraph, I want you to tell him why this kind of thinking is wrong and that you’re going to try very hard to overcome these feelings and not say these threatening things to him anymore.”

“But why?” Will blinked back at his father, feeling obviously betrayed.

“Because what you’re doing is wrong. How would you feel if someone invaded your personal space like that and said that to you? You need to put yourself in other people’s shoes –“

“ ‘Put myself in people’s footwear?’ That doesn’t make any sense, Dad; you’re being daft. And besides, Uncle John invades Papa’s personal space and threatens him all the time. Why is that okay for Papa and what I’m doing not?”

Greg suddenly felt weary and at a loss for being married to someone who could not be the shining example he needed at that moment.

“Never mind Papa,” he tried again, “What’s important is that next year, the school will be bigger, your classmates will be bigger, and not all of them are going to be as nice as Louis.

“In fact, I’m worried about Louis’ feelings. He must be very hurt and confused because he doesn’t know why you don’t like him. He needs to know that it’s not his fault and that you are trying to stop treating him this way.”

Greg then looked up, hoping that his efforts would smooth the lines on the assistant’s battle-axe demeanor. It had.

“That’s an excellent idea your Dad has, Will,” she smiled, “Make that your project for the weekend.”

* * *

Bored –SH

Good for you. Wish I could say the same –GL

Will and Greg had come home. The latter had spent a full twenty more minutes trying to explain that the former was being a bully at school. Fifteen minutes of circular reasoning constituted most of it, all of it provided by a boy who couldn’t grasp that since he hadn’t actually used his fists and was far too small to do so, he could still be the kind of mental terror Louis could physically be.

After all, as an apple, Greg’s son didn’t really fall that far from the tree.

It’s Will, isn’t it? –SH

Please don’t tell me you can deduce this through some video monitoring you’re testing for science in this flat, but yes. You would be correct, smartarse –GL

Shut up, call me and put him on –SH

Ask nicely and I might –GL

I miss you and can’t live without texting you. There, that good? –SH

Love you, too. Give me a minute –GL

* * *

Will had taken Greg’s mobile into his room and shut the door. Unable to tamp down his overweening curiosity, his father tried to listen behind it, but most of what was eavesdropped were long patches of silence punctuated by an ‘uhm hmm’ of assent or two from his son. Surprisingly – and much to his chagrin – Greg never heard them argue. And the craziest part about it was that Will was listening to Sherlock as opposed to the litany of ‘areyoumad,Dad’ that Greg was subjected to every time he had to be confronted with his son’s shortcomings. It was maddeningly frustrating to feel so powerless and ineffectual in comparison to Sherlock. It’s as though William took more security in his Papa’s mind than Greg’s own heart – where all of the love he had for his children lay. He may have not been born a genius, but he loved with a genius’ fervor.

Maybe that wasn’t enough?

* * *

Greg had tickets to see an Arsenal game that Saturday and had originally wanted to take William as part of a special father-son outing, but after the row with Louis, plans were changed out of sensitivity to the situation. Greg decided to appeal to Will’s own interest in trains. A traveling exhibit of an American railroad system was featured at the Royal Albert and Victoria Museum for the next few months, so that took up most of the morning.

For lunch, they went to Will’s favorite burger place at Covent Garden and then they took the tube to Tower Hill so that he could watch the ravens on the lawn for a good hour or so as Greg answered emails via his iPhone.

Did he write the letter? –SH

Well hello to you as well, Sunshine –GL

I’m in a tight spot. Can’t say much –SH

Then get out of it and text me then –GL

Just tell me. I’m worried –SH

Greg sighed. It was so like Sherlock to be so single-minded. Normally, he wouldn’t mope and whine, but his fatherly ego had taken a hit as of late and he needed at least some spousal love from afar.

He wrote it but he won’t show me. Stuffed it in an envelope and sealed it –GL

Good. Sounds like him –SH

Sounds like you, you mean. When are you coming home? –GL

Late tomorrow xox –SH

Using kisses and hugs symbols now? You struck with fever? –GL

:P –SH

* * *

“You’re late; they’re both already asleep.”

Sherlock ignored the introduction and embraced Greg tightly and quickly, but not enough for him to ignore the shiner below his left eye and a smudge of grease on his neck.

Greg winced, “Let me run you a bath and I’ll make you some tea.”

Sherlock held his side, “I’ll go up to check on them…” he paused on the landing, stopping long enough to give a longing smile, “And thank you.”

* * *

The bathroom steam was headily scented with Santa Maria Novella Melograno bath salts – just enough to lull Sherlock back into the feeling of finally being at home, and Greg could finally see the imperious jawline relax, the taut musculature unwind as he sank down deeper into the hot water.

Greg dropped down onto one end of the bath and handed Sherlock a mug of tea, proceeding to sip from the amber liquid from the glass in his other hand.

“Mmm, no,” the consulting detective murmured and snapped his fingers for what his husband had in his palm instead. “I need something stronger.”

“That bad, eh?” Greg handed over the glass, “Turn around. I have some scented oil. Lemme give you a backrub and you can tell me about the case –“

“’Yes’ to the massage,” Sherlock purred, “But ‘no’ to the case. Much too mundane; Mycroft is slipping. I want to hear about your weekend with William.”

Greg proceeded to give his husband the highlights – the museum trip, the lunch, the ravens.

“You’re moping,” Sherlock downed the last remnants of the glass and let it float in the still mostly-warm water.

“I’m envious.”

Sherlock tipped his head back so that he glimpsed at Greg from upside-down, his expression annoyed, yet worrying all the same, “Why ever so? And who of?”

“You, you idiot.” Greg grabbed his curls and gently forced him to face forward again. He wasn’t sure he could look into those crystal blue eyes and confess so much, and besides, Sherlock’s trapezius muscle wouldn’t let go if he kept that up, “I’m jealous of your relationship with our children. Will argues with me to no end, until I’m mental. But with you, he just does what you say.”

Sherlock moved suddenly, turning around and splashing Greg’s shirt. “What specifically does Will say?”

Greg sighed, running his hands through his hair, forgetting that they were damp with oil, “Instead of letting me get any information out of him, he just keeps asking again and again, a combination of ‘Are you mad at me, Dad?’ or ‘Am I being punished?’ It’s just frustrating that he just fights me every step of the way and is determined to think I’m the ‘bad guy’ parent in this family.”

It took five seconds of Sherlock’s cataloguing stare – one that would normally put any other man ill at ease – before he got up abruptly and grabbed for the towel on the hook.

He was halfway out the door, trailing splashes of bathwater behind him.

“Wait, Sherlock, I wasn’t done with this conversation –“

Greg followed him into their bedroom, his hands on his hips, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Sherlock was drying himself and trading the towel for the dressing gown hanging in the closet. Greg could hear him mumble something but it was indistinct so he moved closer.

“I said,” Sherlock went to the dresser to look at the shiner more closely before his eyes drifted to some indistinct spot in the mirror, beyond his partner’s shoulder, “ ‘I’m the jealous one.’ Greg, you are our son’s emotional barometer.”

He’d said it as though it was some grand pronouncement, as though Sherlock was some guru Greg had reached on some mount in Tibet and this was the wisdom of the ages.

“Sorry, but you forget I’m an idiot. Could you explain?”

Sherlock sighed and motioned for his husband to lie on the bed beside him. Greg felt awful for having this kind of existential dilemma so late at night; it was obvious that while the case had been tedious, it had obviously tired Sherlock out.

Nevertheless, his husband pulled him in for a reassuring cuddle, something both of them had apparently needed because soon, Greg was almost half-asleep, woken suddenly to full wakefulness by the baritone reverberating from below his ear, the one spread across Sherlock’s chest.

“The reason why Will asks you if you are angry with him is not because he expects you to be but because he looks to you to understand emotions. Your face – so easy to deduce, not because you’re weaker than I am, in fact, some days, I think you are stronger.

“For as long as we’ve known one another, you have never been afraid to express how you’ve felt. Even if it was without words. Will needs to understand when he’s hurt another. When the classroom assistant tells me about Louis, he doesn’t read any distress in my expression. But he can with you. And he needs to have that barometer. Because the last thing I wanted when I agreed to become a father with you, was to repeat my childhood, raised by a man who I could never deduce and thus, who I could never be fully the man you are, the man I’ve wanted to be and yet spend half my days wondering why he wants to be with me.”

It was the most Sherlock had ever said – the most meaningful -- and when Greg looked up, he was surprised to find tears trickling into his husband’s ears, tracks of glistening wetness in the dim light from an otherwise placid face.

“You’re wrong, love,” Greg murmured, kissing them, tasting of their saltiness, “You know that saying – ‘love the man who hates the world, yet loves only you’? That’s you; you’re full of emotion. Your actions speak entirely of emotion.”

Sherlock finally looked at him and smiled, laughed. “I’m weary now. Can we go to bed then make love in the morning?”

“Yes, love, we can try.”

* * *

Monday arrived but morning sex was suspended. Mycroft, the original cockblocker, showed up with another new MI-5 case, this time in Westminster, so Greg could barely complain. It still meant that Sherlock would be back late; the half-days at the Yard would go on for another week, or at least until his consulting detective husband had solved the case or saved the world, whichever came first.

At the proper time, Greg arrived to pick up Will from school. The assistant was at the gate with his son, backpack at his side, and Greg clenched his jaw, stopping just short of within sight of them, steeling himself with a readying breath.

But what he could see was comforting. Will was smiling and so was the assistant!

In fact, as Greg approached, he could see the lad was fit to bursting. Still, he was silently beaming, looking towards the woman by his side.

“William had a remarkable day! I don’t know what you did with him this weekend but the letter he gave Louis was remarkable –“

“Did you read it?”

“Oh no, that’s a private thing between the two; but the result was fantastic! At lunch, Louis came up to Will and asked him how he was. They’re not best friends but I think this may be the last time he’s threatened again, isn’t that right, Will?”

“Yes, miss,” the boy beamed, “And tell him the rest!”

Greg didn’t stop to wonder why Will couldn’t just tell him the day’s events on his own, but as he looked the assistant in the eye, he felt his boy’s gaze heavy on his reaction.

“Well, we had an awards assembly today. Will was given a list to read and he didn’t want to do it initially, but we encouraged him. He did a wonderful job and even ad-libbed a bit of comedy at the end! Everyone laughed.”

Greg’s dimpled grin burst forth as he looked to his son, “Did you?”

Will nodded fervently.

“And after lunch, the class played football and Will scored a goal!”

“You didn’t!”

“I did, Dad!”

Greg couldn’t help himself and covered the space between them to give him a hard hug. He shut his eyes to savor the moment and could feel them getting watery.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered into Will’s ear.

“Are you happy, Dad?”

“Yes, so much, lad.”

“Can we get ice creams?”

Greg chuckled, a tear threatening to fall, “Yes, absolutely, yes.”


End file.
